


L'Or du Roi

by daphnerunning, Galiko



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:30:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galiko/pseuds/Galiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years before the manga begins, Sinbad comes to terms with what Ja'far is to him--and receives a lesson in ruling (among other things) from the King of Balbadd.</p>
            </blockquote>





	L'Or du Roi

Sinbad is strange.

Moreover, he's loud. And annoying. And all sorts of troublesome, from how he stays out so late and rolls around with so many women and gets so drunk. Ja'far really doesn't understand the point of that, or actually, the point of most of the things Sinbad does--including keeping him after he was assigned to kill him.

Ja'far… doesn't get it at all, even after these past couple of months.

 He also isn't fond of the way he's made to wait most nights with nothing to do, in spite of how Sinbad tries to drag him places. Tonight's a bit difference, because Sinbad is a guest within Balbadd's palace, and while that sounds nice, it's mostly too quiet and too awkward to be in a place so nice. Too quiet makes him paranoid, makes him watch out of the corner of his eye at every little thing while he curls in a ball in one of the hallways while Sinbad has an audience with the king--and by that, Ja'far is sure he means drinking until he can't stand.

 Ah, maybe this was all a mistake. He could probably leave, while Sinbad's drunk, and the man wouldn't think anything else of it.

 

Sinbad probably spends far too much time thinking about Ja’far.

Even now, after hours of feasting as the great king’s guest, after most of a jug of wine between them, after the king’s sons have excused themselves and the servants are starting to yawn, he can’t entirely dismiss the boy from his mind. “If you saved someone’s life, you have a responsibility to them, right?” Sinbad asks, forgetting his manners and resting his elbows on the table. “Like...your men call me a tribal leader, right? If I were walking along and I found a river about to crush a town, and they begged me for help, and I rolled a tree in front of the river to divert it--well, I’ve saved them, right? But what about when the next storm comes? If I don’t save them again, does that mean I never really did in the first place? If I do save them, and they die of plague a few years later, well, they wouldn’t have died of plague if I hadn’t saved them from drowning, right? So a good king--not me, I mean, just any good king, I mean if I _was_ a king--it’s not enough just to save someone, right? You have to _keep_ someone safe, right?”

His hand curls around the wine glass, staring down into the dark red liquid. “And you’d...you’d have to make sure they’re happy. And if they weren’t, you still have to, to keep them safe until you figure out what makes them that way, right?”

He looks up, blinking a few times at the bearded figure of his new friend. “Er, right, _Your Majesty_?” he adds quickly.

 

This one is entertaining, even if he's a bit chatty while drunk. Well, he was chatty before, too, but now it's far more the chattering of a boy, less a man for a few years, and Rashid hides the amusement of his expression in his glass, coiling his arm tighter around Anise's side as she starts to doze off into his shoulder. "Typically, if you save someone once, they tend to expect it again… _if_  you keep them around, or if they choose to stay around." His eyebrows arch high. "Are we speaking in hypotheticals, or should I be concerned about you tossing trees around in villages and plagues in the near future?"

 

Sinbad nearly chokes on his wine, but manages to gulp it down nonetheless without splashing over his clothes. “I--that’s how, the first time…”

He wipes his mouth, trying not to dart a look at the sweet-faced beauty nuzzling into his companion’s shoulder. She’s lovely, sure, but the way Rashid holds her, she’s every kind of taken, no matter that he’s pretty sure he has a good understanding of where proper married Balbaddian women wear jewelry…

“When I was in the South,” he explains, “the first time, that’s what happened. There was a storm, and I found some trees. And then there was a fire, and I put that out, and…” He shrugs. “Before too long they were looking to me when something happened, and other towns nearby heard about me and the dungeon, and everything, everything just, it went really _fast_ after that.”

 

"By doing all of those things, you've answered your own questions, haven't you?" Rashid replies. "The moment you open the door for others to depend on you, they will. If you continue to _prove_  yourself dependable, they will even more. It's how you earn a man's loyalty, and how you build an army, a council, a _country_ … which, isn't that what you want to do, when you're done traversing the world?" he adds wryly.

 

Sinbad’s lips turn up in a warm, secret smile. “Of course it is,” he says softly. He doesn’t see the wine in the goblet, he sees a throne, like the one King Rashid has here, and servants, and armies, and all of them looking to him like the people here look to this man. He sees his name written across history, passed from adult to child, into legend and myth.

In his memory, he reaches out a hand to Ja’far, who turns away.

“I can keep them safe,” he says with a frown, hand clenching into a fist. “I can make them trust me, but how do I make them happy? How do I make them love me?”

 

"Every person is different," is the simple enough reply. "What it comes down to is what they need… and then, what they want. Not always mutually exclusive, of course. If you give them all of that, then they'll be happy, and eventually love you as a good king." Rashid sets his wine glass down with a snort. "What are you worrying about this for, though? You're still young, you have time to learn."

 

“But nothing _works_.” Sinbad is vaguely aware that he’s whining, a bit, and tries to stop. “I mean, I give them safety, food, clothes...you know, all the things. Come with me on adventures. Gold. But it doesn’t _work_ , that’s not a _smile_ , I can’t even get him to smile when I tell jokes and I’m _good_ at telling jokes!”

 

As suspected, they aren't really talking about countries.

Rashid tries not to look too amused, though it's difficult with the buzz of wine going through his own head. "The boy you brought with you, then?" he guesses, knowing he's right. "He does seem quite shy--not the normal sort I would imagine to be traveling with you."

 

“That’s what I thought!” Sinbad says, almost accusingly pointing his finger, lurching just a bit as he pours himself another glass of wine. “I thought, shy kid. But he’s not! If he has a problem, he keeps quiet, but if he _wants_ to talk, he talks. So he just...he doesn’t want to talk to me! And he doesn’t think I’m funny.”

 

"Maybe you don't have a similar sense of humor," Rashid dryly retorts. He should probably take the wine away from the kid at some point. "Or maybe, he has enough going on in his head that he would rather spend his time dealing with that than laughing."

 

“Maybe he needs a woman,” Anise murmurs sleepily, nuzzling into Rashid’s shoulder.

“I’ve tried to take him drinking. I’ve tried to take him to women. I’ve tried to feed him, and he just eats as much as he needs and no more. He sleeps five hours a night. He doesn’t really care what he wears, or if his food is spicy or sweet or bland, and he doesn’t care if we walk all over the damned world, and I can’t find anything he _does_ care about!”

His hand slams down on the table, and he stares at it, sort of interested. “But...he doesn’t leave me, even when there’s no food. And when there’s a problem, he looks at me like he doesn’t doubt I can fix it.”

 

"You have this penchant for answering your own questions, if left to it for long enough," Rashid notes, one hand gently sweeping up Anise's back to toy with the ends of her hair. "Whatever you've done for the boy, he obviously cares about you, in some regard, because of it. So make him care about what _you_  want. Give him a purpose, even if it isn't quite his yet--it will be, if he wants to make it that way."

 

The words strike a chord, disrupting the churning gears of Sinbad’s mind like a rock thrown into still waters. It makes _sense_. He’d seen it in the village, how even those who weren’t farmers flocked to the fields on harvest day, how those who weren’t woodsmen grew adept at carting off branches until they protested the return to their actual work. If he could think of something to give Ja’far a task, give him a _reason_ , maybe he’d be inclined to stick around longer.

Sinbad beams at the king, raising his mostly-empty glass in a toast. “I knew there was a reason you were called a wise and good king,” he praises. “And now I see you are a clever man as well.”

 

"Such words mean plenty, coming from such an ambitious young man," Rashid says with a chuckle, lifting his own glass in kind. "Perhaps in a few years, I will see you with that boy still at your side, though far more useful than a shy tagalong."

 

Sinbad’s mind is already racing with ideas, things he can try, things he can teach Ja’far, as he downs his wine. He’s felt so _drained_ the last few days, seeing Ja’far more uncomfortable than usual, but this helps. This helps a _lot_. “Your Majesty, nothing would please me more than to greet you again in such a way.” He grins. “But next time, we will both be kings.”

“I like this one,” Anise murmurs, curling her hand in Rashid’s robe.

 

"You would," Rashid says with a little roll of his eyes. "There is such a thing as _too_  ambitious, Sinbad. As I said before--you are still young. Enjoy your adventures if that is what you wish, before building your country. Once it is built, _leaving_ should be a rare occasion, and only used to strengthen it."

 

Sinbad listens, smiles, but there’s little that’s swayed in his convictions. Maybe later he’ll reflect more soberly, but for now, he’s _young_ , and his blood is hot, and this great king sees the makings of the same in him. “Thank you, your Majesty. And I will say that when I am the king of a great nation in a great city, you will be welcome at any time of any day of the year, and I will treat you to the very best that my people have to offer until your head spins. Ah, you and your lady, of course.”

 

"I _do_  look forward to it--and I am sure Anise would enjoy a chance out of the country for a change of pace." In one ear, out the other, probably, with this one. Ah, well. He's young, for whatever that's worth, and he'll learn one way or another. "In the meantime, you should _probably_  either invite your sole subject in here with us, or take him home to bed."

 

Sinbad blinks. “So soon? But the night is young,” he starts, faltering to an end at the sight of Anise all but asleep on the King’s shoulder. What would it be like, he wonders, to have someone that doted on him so, that longed to be with him, missed him when he was gone, yet wasn’t his wife to nag or be locked down by the chains of _queen_? Surely, that would be a dream come to life.

He takes the hint, opening the outer door and looking around. “Ja’far? Are you here?” He little doubts that he’ll hear a reply. Ja’far doesn’t let him go far.

 

"Yes."

A small, pale-haired head pokes up from the cloak he's huddled himself into, and Ja'far tries not to immediately wrinkle his nose at how Sinbad smells so strongly of alcohol. He _wants_  to complain about how late it is, but bites his tongue, rising carefully to his feet with a careful stretch of his limbs. "Are we leaving?"

 

Sinbad tries not to feel terribly irresponsible at the hopeful tone in the boy’s voice. For the most part, he’s successful. “If you really want to. But come, I want you to meet the king’s lady. She’s heard a lot about you, you’ll like her!”

 

Ja'far blinks up at him impassively. "Why?"

 

Sinbad slings an arm around the boy’s shoulders, not taking no for an answer unless he really fights. “Just a few minutes,” he promises. “Then you can go to bed.” Before Ja’far has much chance to protest, Sinbad steers him inside, back to the table. “Your Majesty, Lady Anise, I’d like you to formally meet my boy. Uh, that is, my ward. Friend.” _Just don’t call him your son or your lady and he’ll probably not kill you in your sleep._

As it happens, Rashid is in the process of scooping said woman into his arms as she dozes on his shoulder, and he spares Sinbad something of a put out look. "Perhaps another night, when there is less wine involved." Though he can only imagine that would be a rare thing, with this one. "Boy, do your master a favor, and make sure he makes it to his room safely."

 _As if I wasn't going to already_ , Ja'far tiredly thinks, but he nods all the same, twisting within Sinbad's hold to give him a little shove. "You're drunk," he mutters. _And they don't want you here, take the hint and let's both get some rest already!_

Sinbad tries not to look crestfallen, but the end of the night so prematurely takes the wind from his sails. “That’s...hmm. All right, your Majesty!” Sinbad stumbles a bit into the hallway, leaning on the boy’s shoulders. “Ah...our room, we have a room here somewhere. Or we could go out on the town,” he suggests hopefully. He has no idea where their guest room is, but he’s fairly confident in being able to find a brothel, no matter how drunk he is, listing heavily to one side.

 

Ja'far doesn't deign that with an answer. Instead, he merely _tugs_ , firmly guiding Sinbad along, because _he_  certainly remembers where their room is. He hopes Sinbad regrets this in the morning. He hopes he has a dreadful headache, too, because he's certainly giving Ja'far one, with every struggling step it takes to yank him in the right direction. _So annoying._

Finally, he manages to get to the room in question, open the door, and dump Sinbad unceremoniously onto the bed, all but grinding his teeth as he does. "I'm going to sleep." He's going to bolt the damned door--then maybe Sinbad won't be able to figure out how to leave.

 

Ja’far is such a _pissy_ kid. Sinbad grabs his wrist, tugging him down to the bed and against his side, holding the boy there with strong muscles. “Why don’t you _relax_ once in a while?” he asks, trying to will Ja’far into being as floaty and warm as he is right now. “Enjoy yourself, have fun, being young doesn’t last forever!”

 

Ja'far _wants_ to bite him.

He nearly does. The hiss of his breath between his teeth should have been warning enough. _You're just an idiot that's drunk and doesn't know what he's talking about._  "Let me go already," he mutters, prodding an elbow into Sinbad's side to try and put distance between them.

 

Sinbad clamps his arm down tighter. “Why?” he demands. “You’re not going to _go_ anywhere. You don’t go anywhere! You just...you just sit around, I don’t _get_ it, what the hell are you going to _do_ with your life, follow me around forever?”

 

"Maybe." He's going to stab him. Ja'far's teeth clench and he tries to tell himself to just relax and give up and try to go to sleep like this. It doesn't work.

 

At some point, Sinbad’s hand starts stroking up and down Ja’far’s arm. He’s got soft skin under there, like the Lady Anise, probably. Ah, she’d been lovely. He can so easily imagine stroking her skin, running a hand over her lips. “Do you like girls, Ja’far?”

 

Ugh. And now _this_ \--Ja'far growls low in his throat, trying again for a firm, solid shove at Sinbad's chest to push away from him. "I don't care. I've told you that before."

 

“Yeah,” Sinbad admits, “you have. But you were younger then. I figured you were just slow. I mean, I’ve shown you lots of beautiful girls, do you want me to buy you one? I have very good taste.”

 

"I don't want one." Ja'far can feel the edges of his already short patience begin to fray. "Just let me _sleep_ \--and stop touching me."

 

Maybe the wine has gone further to his head than Sinbad had thought, or maybe it’s the intensity in King Rashid’s dark eyes that he remembers so strongly raking over him, that feeling of being weighed, appraised, _found worthy_ by a man he so respects, but Sinbad finds _he_ isn’t thinking much about girls either. One of his hands starts to slide down, from Ja’far’s shoulder to his chest. “Is it men you want, then?” he asks quietly, for the first time.

 

It isn't that Ja'far cares. Not at all, actually, because he doesn't look at _men_ , either, and certainly not this one pawing at him. _That's_  what he doesn't like, an entirely unwelcome touch that reeks of booze. He twists, shoving a foot sharply into Sinbad's hip, and it's with one, solid push that he sends the man rolling off the bed into a heap on the floor. "I told you already--I don't _care!"_ His chest heaves from the effort of raising his voice, and his fingers twitch, the urge to reach for his blades and slice into something _strong_. "Stop _asking_  things like that! Stop asking me what I want to do, stop trying to shove me at other people, just _stop!_  You're nothing but a careless drunkard, anyway--what the hell do you know?!"

 

The world flips suddenly, and only Sinbad’s iron stomach keeps him from losing his dinner. The floor is unforgivingly hard, banging against his shoulder and knee and head all at once somehow, leaving his head ringing as he listens, startled, to Ja’far’s tirade. There’s a long minute of silence when the boy finishes, and Sinbad slowly folds himself into a less ridiculous position, staring unblinkingly at Ja’far. He spreads his hands, saying quietly, “I just want you to be happy.”

 

Ja'far sinks back with a long, hard huff, his face flushed and his chest still rising and falling too fast. " _Why?_  I tried to kill you! I still might, why would you want someone like that to be happy?!"

 

Sinbad blinks. The question doesn’t quite make sense to his wine-addled brain. “I don’t understand. You’re my friend, of course I want you to be happy.”

 

" _You've_  decided that I'm your friend." He's trembling. Why is he trembling? "Well, I'm not. I'm just some kid you decided to drag along for the ride because it makes you _look_  good."

 

There’s a heavy beat of silence. Then, Sinbad bursts out laughing. “You think bringing a boy who obviously hates and resents me everywhere makes me look _good_? When you stand outside a brothel and glare at everyone, especially me, and treat everyone we meet like they’re a spitting wasp in disguise?” He shakes his head, which makes him reel a bit. “I’ve never forced you to stay with me. You can go now, if you want to.”

 

Ja'far's mouth opens, then shuts, and he shoves himself up, still shaking as he slides from the bed. "Fine."

He'll go, and he won't have to worry about dragging this stupid drunkard around on nights like this anymore.

The door shuts heavily behind him, and Ja'far slinks down it to plop himself onto the floor. Probably stupid, to try and leave the palace this late at night and go anywhere. He can just wait until morning. It's not like Sinbad will be awake, because he always has a hangover and sleeps until noon and complains the moment he wakes up and _ugh_ , Ja'far hates having to run to the market and be around so many people, just to pick up one of the local remedies for a headache--

And now his face is wet.

He shakily huffs, burying his face into his knees. Stupid. _All_  of this is stupid.

 

It takes Sinbad a long moment to realize that Ja’far is really _gone_.

Once he does, he lurches to his feet, immediately faceplanting back to the ground. One more try, and he makes it to the door, heart thudding rapidly in his ears, twisting at the idea that he’ll be too _late_ that Ja’far would be _gone_ he’ll never see the boy again, never see those freckles again, never, _never_ find out what makes him smile--

Sinbad throws open the door, stumbling a bit on a pile of rags someone had left out to be cleaned. “Ja’far!” he shouts at the wavering shadows of the hall, not caring who might here. Damn, which way had the boy gone? “Ja’far, don’t go!”

 

For a moment, Ja'far doesn't want to bother.

Ugh, but it's _annoying_ , embarrassing, even, to be yelled for like that, no matter how he's barely inches from the door still and Sinbad's just loud and obnoxious as he huddles in his cloak and does a good job of blending with the wall. "Be quiet already, you'll wake everyone up," he mumbles, sniffling no matter how he tries not to. "I'm right here."

 

The sheer relief (or the wine) (but mostly the relief) brings Sinbad to his knees, kneeling in front of the boy, reaching out for his hand just to feel that he’s real. “God, don’t _scare_ me like that,” he admonishes, heart still racing. “I’d have to go running around the city in the dark looking for you, and I’d probably break my neck I’m so drunk.”

 

"You told me to leave." Ja'far flinches, not able to curb the reaction when Sinbad touches him again. Ugh, he's just tired now. This is all really dumb. He shoves his face back into his knees. "So I left."

 

Sinbad wants to _hit_ the boy, almost does, hand curling into a loose fist that he shoves into his own chest instead, folding his arms. “I never told you to leave, I just said you _could_. You’re...I mean, you’re not my prisoner, but I don’t _want_ you to go.”

 

"You said that I hated you. That I resented you." Ja'far's arms tighten around his own legs. "I don't."

 

Sinbad sinks down to his knees, raking a hand back through his hair. Damn it, he’s not sober enough to deal with this, but he’s _got_ to, because if he doesn’t do it now, he’ll lose the kid forever. “You said I was nothing but a careless drunk. Why wouldn’t you hate me?”

 

"… I was just mad because you kept touching me." Ja'far heaves a long, shaky sigh, sniffling again. "You keep trying to make me do things I don't want to do. I just want to be left alone."

 

“I’m sorry.” Sinbad sighs, patting the boy on the head. “I’m sorry, all right? I’m--look, I’m _really_ drunk right now, and I just keep thinking that if I don’t figure out what kind of thing you like you’re going to get bored and leave me.”

 

"I don't have anywhere to go." It should be obvious, shouldn't it? Ja'far does his best not to entirely shrink from Sinbad's hand. "At least if I'm with you… it's… not quite as bad."

 

Sinbad huffs out a breath through his nose, trying to think of how the hell to put words together. “You don’t have to stay with me because of that. You know I have a lot of gold, right? I’ll give you whatever you want. If you want to stay here in Balbadd I’ll get you a nice house, and maybe a job with King Rashid…”

 

Ja'far's head slowly shakes. "I don't want to. I don't know anyone here."

 

“But you don’t know anyone _anywhere_.” Sinbad leans forward, the only way he’ll see any light in Ja’far’s dark eyes. “You don’t _have_ to stay with--look, I _want_ you to stay with me. I just...I want you to _want_ to stay with me. Not because you have to. And if you hate me, and if you don’t want to be my friend, then…”

 

"I already said I don't hate you!" How many times will he have to repeat himself? Probably at least five more, considering how drunk Sinbad is. "I don't hate you. I _don't_. I just… you're _weird_ , what kind of guy would… would take in someone like me? I tried to _kill you_."

 

Sinbad shrugs. “So?”

 

Ja'far lifts his head enough to stare at him. "… Most people would be pretty… put off by that… I think."

 

Sinbad eases himself down to the ground, wincing at the cold stone under his ass. “You,” he says slowly, “had the coldest, most ruthless eyes I’d ever seen. And yet I’ve fallen asleep around you a hundred times, and you’ve never tried to kill me.” He smiles. “I offered you a chance at a new life with me. I’d hate to think you’d given up on it already just to kill me after all.”

 

"… It hasn't been quite a hundred times." He knows. He's kept count of the days. Maybe it's been a hundred times if he counts the naps Sinbad takes sometimes, though. Ja'far's lower lip trembles and he scrunches himself into a tinier ball. "I don't… want to kill you, or anything. You're just… really weird. Sometimes you make me really mad, and you make really stupid mistakes. I know you wouldn't listen, though, if I said anything."

 

“Hey.”

Sinbad leans forward, tapping Ja’far on the knee. “Who says I wouldn’t listen? You’re a really smart kid. Like, I bet you knew that guy back in Hexae was selling me a cursed camel, right? I’d definitely have listened if you’d told me it was too good a deal--or when that woman with all the piercings bet me her goat could sing, you could have told me it was rigged.” He grins. “I don’t mind, really. It would feel more like we’re traveling _together_.”

 

Oh.

Well. That's… a little different. Still, Ja'far eyes the hand tapping his knee rather warily. "… But why are you so nice? I'm not _that_  smart, I can't even read. I'm not as strong as you. I don't have the magoi you do." 

 

“I’m not that nice, I just don’t care about that kind of thing,” Sinbad insists. “But if you want…” He stands abruptly, holding out a hand. “It’s cold, and I’m drunk,” he explains. “And we have to go to bed if I’m going to teach you how to read in the morning.”

 

"… Okay."

The word of agreement leaves his tongue before he can stop himself, and Ja'far sniffs one final time before he reaches up to gingerly take Sinbad's hand. He doesn't pull on it too hard--he's fairly certain Sinbad will fall over if he does--but he climbs to his feet all the same. "… Sorry," he quietly, awkwardly adds. _I've never met anyone like you, you really are strange._

Immediately, Sinbad disregards all of Ja’far’s protests about being touched, gripping the boy in a firm hug before letting him go. “It’s fine. If you ever want to leave, it’s fine. But I’d always want you to stay with me. That’s what being friends is about.” _And I think my world might change a little, or a lot, if you weren’t in it._ “Besides, you’re my first and only subject.”

 

"… What?" He prides himself on not squeaking over that _hug_ , at least, though looking entirely too confused probably isn't much better.

 

Sinbad steers them into the room, kicking it shut and flopping down on the bed. “I’ve decided what to do with my life,” he announces. “I’m going to be a king." 

 

Ja'far reminds himself that the man is really, really drunk. He curls himself into a ball on the opposite side of the bed, sighing as his head hits the pillow. This is definitely nicer than the cold of the streets, at least. "You'll change your mind in the morning."

 

The smile on Sinbad’s face is a little dreamy. “I don’t think so. I’ve had this thought for a long time, but…” He laughs, self-deprecating, and scoots close enough to feel the warmth of Ja’far’s body without actually touching him. That keeps the loneliness away, at least. “I never really thought I could do it before. Now I think I can." 

 

It's kind of a stupid goal, really.

Then again, what does he know? He's never even _had_  a goal, outside of staying alive and completing assignments as handed out. Ja'far's eyes lid. "If you still want to do it in the morning," he murmurs, "I can try and help a little. It's the least I can do, after everything." Even if he has no idea what makes a king in the first place.

 

Sinbad’s smile widens, even as he starts to drift off to sleep. “Sleep as long as you can, then. In the morning, we’ll start a new life.” _Just me and you, kid._

_~_   _That Evening_ ~

It had started as a joke. 

It always makes the girls laugh, after they’re done playing, to pick up something gauzy and light and pretend it’s his own, trying to put it on over his broad shoulders. It works like a charm, and they’d all laughed, giving him those little girlish slaps that don’t hurt. Then one of them had beamed, and announced that she had a _great_ idea. 

Sinbad’s not _entirely_ sure how he’d wound up like this.

They’d made a show of holding him down, probably made easier by the fact that he had egged them on the whole way. There had been wine, sometimes tipped into his mouth from a jug, sometimes kissed into it by a soft pair of painted red lips, staining his own.

They’d truly painted his lips after that, with tiny brushes and pots of paint, and then his eyes, and a dusting on his cheeks. He’d been laughing, encouraging, and when they moved down his body, he’d been expecting them to stuff his chest with handkerchiefs.

Instead, they’d brushed gold dust over his chest and abdomen, and he’d obligingly rippled for them. The tickle of brushes over his face and body is nice, especially blotted and blended by slender, soft fingertips.

At some point (there had been _too_ much wine, or maybe not enough), they’d found some of the drapey, gauzey things that _did_ fit over his shoulders and hips, and after that the golden bracelets, anklets, necklaces. They’d laughed and clapped and made him turn around, braided his hair with ribbons and chains, and told him that now he looked like a _proper_ dancing girl.

Sinbad isn’t quite sure how he’d gone from that moment to where he is now, with the girls dumping him onto a massive, richly-draped bedspread, tiptoing out and giggling as they shut the door behind them. It’s a jest, he decides. Some kind of jest, and he arranges himself demurely, ready to blink his eyelashes at whoever walks in.

 

The door opens and shuts, and there's a pause.

Anise's 'presents' tend to be amusing. Usually entertaining as well, and in the form of women prettied up by her or her girls' hands. This, however--this… isn't what Rashid expects, not in the slightest, and the first question in his mind is _how drunk are you_.

Then again, does it really matter?

" _You_  clean up well," is the king's low drawl, and he reaches out a hand, catching hold of Sinbad's chin to lift his head. Ah, he really _does_  clean up well. It doesn't take much, with how delicate the boy's bone structure is, though it's hard to see with his normal nature. "Have you been enjoying yourself, boy?"

 

King Rashid isn’t _exactly_ who Sinbad had been expecting. For a few long minutes, he blinks, focusing his eyes up at the sudden looming figure of the man cupping his chin. Rashid isn’t a small man, tall and imposing, especially when he’s-- 

Ah.

He’s in the king’s bed. 

He’s in the king’s bed, slightly tipsy and painted up like a whore.

Sinbad swallows hard. It’s not far from his notice that at least one of the breasts he’d been grabbing all evening belongs to this man’s lover and love, and he can’t help but wonder if this is some strange sort of revenge. Still… “Yes, sir. I’m--not really sure where they went, but--I don’t mean to be in your way…”

 

"You are far from in the way."

Boys tend to not be to his taste. That being said, Anise likes this one, and Rashid finds him worthy enough. Never mind that he _does_  indeed look like a harem boy from far east now, painted up and decorated like he is. "Though if you are going to be here," Rashid says, reaching for the jug at the beside, "perhaps I should offer you more wine."

 

It’s been a long, long time since Sinbad has found himself in bed with a man. And back then, he’d never exactly been offered wine. _Is this some test?_ He wonders, eyes darting to the crack of the door. Perhaps the girls are waiting, watching to see if he’ll balk and run away. Ha! Little do they know how much mettle he can summon when he has the desire. 

Besides, Rashid isn’t exactly unhandsome to look at. Sinbad can put on a show as well as any of the girls. He leans forward onto his knees, lashes downcast in a manner as demure as any whore learns. “I’d be honored, your Majesty.”

He’d be lying if he said his pulse wasn’t speeding.

 

There should probably be a law, regarding how good this one looks on his knees.

Better than that, though, is putting such a sight to good use, and Rashid thumbs Sinbad's chin, tipping his head back as a goblet presses to his lips. "Open your mouth," he murmurs.

 

Sinbad leans back just a bit, lips parting under Rashid’s thumb as he sips, looking up at Rashid through his eyelashes. The wine pools in his belly, sending heat up his spine, and he licks his lips, tasting wine and a hint of the red paint outlining them. “Your Majesty has excellent taste.”

 

"… And so does my love, apparently," Rashid rumbles, the goblet drained and set aside as his thumb brushes rouged lips, swiping too at the sticky-sweetness of wine left behind. "She seemed to think you would look lovely in my bed. I can't find a reason to disagree."

 

Suddenly, Sinbad isn’t sure whether he hopes the girls are still watching, or whether he hopes they _aren’t_. He parts his lips, closing them around the tip of the king’s thumb, hearing the beat of his own heart louder than the king’s voice. Rashid is a big, strong man, the kind of man Sinbad likes to look up to, the kind that commands a room with his sheer presence, and if his dream weren’t quite so strong, he could easily see himself being content as one of Rashid’s subjects. 

That kind of power makes him heady, almost giddy, and he flicks his tongue against the king’s thumb, biting softly before pulling away. “Do you want to look at me in your bed, your Majesty?”

 

"It was a pleasant surprise," is the answer to follow, and Rashid's hand lifts, fingers plucking at one of the long strands of beads dangling from Sinbad's hair. The warm slickness of the boy's tongue is hardly different than any fine woman's tongue, and there is an extra little _challenge_  that comes from using a man--especially this one, a dungeon capturer that Rashid would see worthy enough to be in his court.

That being said, it isn't as if Sinbad seems to be _protesting_  any of this. Rashid sets a knee upon the bed, sliding up onto it. "If you want to entertain the company of kings, however, you must earn your keep."

 

With those words alone, everything has gone from a nebulous possibility to an inevitability, and Sinbad can’t help the surge of arousal that comes with being looked at, being weighed and judged and found _worthy_ by this man.

Rashid will not find him unworthy now, that he swears. Sinbad relaxes back onto his knees, face turned up even as he scoots forward a few inches, not hiding his eagerness. The role comes easily to his lips, even as it makes his breath come faster. “I have little in the way of coin,” he murmurs. “Perhaps such a great king would be so generous as to...find another use for me?”

It’s been long years since any such wanton words have passed his lip. In a way, Sinbad has missed the prickling, anxious fire of it.

 

Far from protesting--he's a very _eager_  participant. As eager as any of his girls, to be sure, and so Rashid reclines back, reaching only for a handful of Sinbad's hair again, tugging him forward with a languid smirk. "You certainly know how to sound as pretty as you look, don't you? A pity it isn't your voice that I have any use for tonight." His fingers sweep over Sinbad's cheek, tracing over his lips. "You have a lovely mouth."

 

Sinbad shivers at the hand in his hair, letting Rashid tug him easily forward, and he braces his weight on his hands as he looks up, parting his lips under his fingers. “I know how to use that too, your Majesty,” he promises, though it’s been five years and a previous lifetime that he’d last done so. “I...hope you’ll find a use for _that_ , at least.”

 

"I'm certain I will." The hand in Sinbad's hair tightens, a firm tug down following as Rashid's other hand parts his own robes, a slow breath sucked in as he pulls free his already hard cock. He swipes a thumb over the tip, hissing quietly through his teeth, and that same thumb drags over Sinbad's lower lip, wriggles its way into his mouth to swipe over his tongue. "Right now, boy," he breathes, "you look like you were born to be on your knees between a man's legs."

 

Sinbad’s face flushes, less from the wine and more from the words, letting Rashid drag him down. The taste on his tongue is oddly familiar, at the same time new, unique to this man, and the earthy, bitter musk of it goes straight to Sinbad’s cock, swathed in silk that does less than nothing to hide his state. Something about the way Rashid calls him _boy_ now, stripping him of everything but what he is on his knees, makes him feel like that, just a pretty boy ready to kneel between a man’s legs and serve him.

He edges closer, resting his hands on Rashid’s thighs and looking up through painted lashes, close enough that the man will be able to feel the hot exhale of Sinbad’s breath on his cock. “May I?”

 

His own breath escapes hot and fast, and it does take some considerable control not to tighten his grip even further on Sinbad's hair and drag him down, to rub against those painted lips. "Go on." The words are nearly a growl, with Rashid's eyes trained sharply upon him. _You_ do _look good down there._

There’s a spike of uncertainty so large it might be better called _fear_ as Sinbad leans forward. He squashes it at the last second, letting his eyes fall shut as he closes his lips around the tip of the man’s cock, a strangled noise coming out his nose at the _taste_. The part of him that remembers everything Sinbad likes to forget in his waking hours notices that this man is cleaner than anyone he’s ever done this to, and the musky taste of it just makes it clearer and clearer what his _place_ here is. He leans forward, lowering himself down, moaning softly until he goes so far he has trouble breathing, then pulls back, flicking his tongue over the head. _Tell me I’m good_ , he thinks, childishly. The wine fizzles in his veins, and his fingernails bite softly into Rashid’s thighs.

 

A low groan slides from his throat, and Rashid gives into the urge to wrap both hands up in Sinbad's hair, twisting into ribbons and chains and beads as the hot, wet slickness of his mouth slides around him. "Good boy," is the low, rumbling praise, and Rashid's fingers are a firm, steady pressure against the back of his head, an upward lurch of his hips rubbing the head of his cock against those pretty lips. "Keep being good--your mouth feels nice enough that I don't want it off of me. You want to make your king happy, don't you?"

 

Sinbad nods eagerly, pulling off for just long enough to murmur, “Yes, your Majesty,” through sticky glazed lips before he works his mouth down again. His jaw aches already, the thick head of the King’s cock stretching out his lips, and he’s so hard he can’t help but let one hand steal slowly down between his legs, palming himself through delicate silk as he sucks. He can _hear_ himself making obscene slurping noises, urgent little breaths through his nose, and he lurches forward, taking so much in that it bumps the back of his throat, making him swallow convulsively around the thick length in his mouth. _Yes, just like that,_ he thinks, eyes glazing at every yank to his hair.

 

Sinbad is as obscene--maybe even more so--as any of his girls, and looks just as good between his legs, if not _better_. Rashid feels no remorse, then, in grabbing the boy's hair tightly, in thrusting his hips _up_  as he yanks down, liking the way he has to swallow hard and work frantically to take all of him, when he shoved as far down that slick, hot mouth as he can be.

"Knew you were made for this." It's somehow even better, watching Sinbad play with himself so _desperately_. "I bet," the king mutters, "you would like it if I let one of my guards use you, too. Would you still be such a good boy, if they were spreading you open while my cock was in your mouth?"

 

Sinbad blames the wine.

It _has_ to be the wine, because he doesn’t usually get off to the idea of being tossed around and abused, the idea of being held down and fucked at both ends no matter what he wants, but tonight his hips jerk forward, rutting his cock into his hand as he sucks, a desperate whimper choked out around a man’s cock in his mouth. Maybe the girls had put something in that wine, maybe they’d thought it would be a great game to make him whine and beg, because that’s _all_ he feels like doing now. Rashid’s words light a fire in him, and all he can imagine is how it would feel to have someone grabbing his hips, kicking his legs apart and shoving into him, thick and hard and unrelenting.

His cock throbs, and he can’t help himself from coming hard, spilling over the silk and his hand as he chokes, driving himself forward until his nose brushes soft curly hairs.

 

It'd be easy to imagine _keeping_  this one, especially when his mouth is so slick and hot, when he's choking and swallowing down his cock like he _needs_ it. Rashid can feel the shudders going through Sinbad's own body, and he grunts as he thrusts up, his hands buried firmly in the mass of his hair, using that pretty, wet mouth for all its worth.

He pulls back, just slightly, as he comes--a hand still hard and firm as it holds Sinbad's head in place when he spills over his tongue, cock pulsing as his breath escapes in fast, ragged little breaths. "Swallow all of it," he breathlessly orders, eyes trained on the bob of Sinbad's throat. "You've already made enough of a mess, haven't you?"

 

Sinbad blinks tears out of his eyes, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath as he swallows, the taste filling his mouth long after he opens it obligingly to show he’s done as he’s told. His breath comes fast, his voice low and shaky as he murmurs, “Yes, your Majesty. Thank you, your Majesty.”

Ah god, he’s twitching already just from Rashid’s hand in his hair, that deep, commanding voice with its subtle blend of approval and disappointment.

 

Rashid snakes a hand down, dragging between Sinbad's legs, and they come up as slick and messy as he imagined they would. They smear over Sinbad's lips, wriggle past them to his tongue. "Good boy, see how _you_  taste? Someone would be proud to keep you as their concubine."

 

Sinbad squeezes his thighs together for a bit of friction, shivering at just that brief brush of Rashid’s fingers. He closes his mouth around them, sucking as he’d so recently sucked on the man’s cock, blinking up through tear-reddened eyes as he pulls off, leaving a wet thread dangling between them and his lips. “I’m honored to give you pleasure tonight,” he breathes, and then, with a hint of an insolent grin, “even if I didn’t expect to.”

 

"Anise and her girls are certainly… creative, in their gifts." His eyes lid, amused. "You _are_  enjoying this, aren't you?" A pull on Sinbad's hair guides him upward and one hard thigh drags between the boy's legs. "Perhaps you really are more fit to be a concubine than anything else."

 

Sinbad’s back arches, a sharp hiss of breath coming from his mouth as the king’s thigh drags across flesh entirely too sensitive and too eager all at once, and he gives silent thanks for the virility of youth. “Mm, m-maybe it’s just...so I can say I’ve got the makings of a king inside me,” he gasps, hands coming to Rashid’s shoulders for balance, spreading his knees apart on the bed.

 

An amused snort follows that, and it's in one, swift movement that Sinbad finds himself dumped facedown into the bed, a strong hand between his shoulder blades pushing him down, another hiking up his hips. "Or maybe," comes the breathless reply, one hand dragging over the curve of Sinbad's ass and yanking aside silk to drag over bare skin, "you are little better than a whore, fit to serve." Never mind that Rashid doesn't believe it--it's all the better to watch Sinbad shudder at the words. A sharp slap reddens the flesh beneath his touch. "With a boy like you, I'm not surprised."

 

Sinbad lets out a startled yelp at the crack of Rashid’s hand, jerking forward away from the touch. God, how does Rashid _know_? It’s nothing he’s enjoyed for years, nothing he’s _done_ for years, not since he went by a different name in a barren place no one’s ever heard of. Every word Rashid speaks goes straight to his cock, the hard, unexpected slap of his hand even _worse_ , and Sinbad spreads his knees apart, shifting and squirming to rub his cock against the bed through the silk of the borrowed clothing. His hands clench on the elegant sheets, crumpling the fabric as his breath hitches, high and needy. “Knew--knew I couldn’t fool you, y-your Majesty,” he manages, barely. He’d never thought to be in such a vulnerable position again--and worse, never _imagined_ he’d enjoy it so much, start to _crave_ it so much.

 

Sinbad's hair is a good handle, especially when his own cock twitches again, and he can do little but fist a hand into the mass of hair and ribbons to haul Sinbad back. Rashid's hips grind into the curve of Sinbad's ass, hissing out a sharp breath at the way he _squirms_ , and his other hand drags over the redden skin he left behind, kneading into the sensitive flesh before pinching, squeezing, all to slap him again for the obscene sound of it as much as the way Sinbad writhes.

"Tell your king what you want." Sinbad feels good against him like this--Rashid can imagine easily, how good he'd feel spread out and writhing on his cock. "No pretty words, boy… I want to hear all of it."

 

It’s easy to forget that this is all a game, that he’s not really the King’s pretty boy concubine, that he’s not just a whore, a toy good only for the cock he can take, and just the sudden realness of it makes Sinbad’s cock ache. He pushes back near-frantically, against the hardening line of Rashid’s cock, wanting to bury his head in the sheets and not being able to turn away because of that hard yank to his hair.

His king wants words. Sinbad swallows hard, tongue flicking out over dry, painted lips. “Want you to hit me again,” he groans, straining against the hand in his hair because he likes the way the pain feels. “Want you to shove your cock in my ass, fuck me until you’re _done_.” It hurts, how far apart his legs are spread, but it’s not enough, and he widens them further. “Use me. Please.”

 

Rashid isn't sure he could stop himself if he tried, never mind those words. It's the opposite cheek this time that his hand falls up with a sharp _crack_ , reddening smooth, trembling skin with the palm of his hand. His own cock swells with each lewd word that falls from Sinbad's lips, and his breath catches hard, mouth dry as he jerks his hips forward, grinding in slow, hard circles, with the widening spread of Sinbad's legs all the more encouraging.

The hold on Sinbad's hair relents, just for a moment, long enough to grab for the sweet-smelling oils at his bedside. Rashid's cock is slick as it drags up the cleft of Sinbad's ass, a low groan escaping his throat as the head of it catches against that tight, twitching hole. "Such a good whore," he mutters, and his fingers twist up into Sinbad's hair again, yanking him back, spreading him on his cock as he shoves his hips forward, the thick head of it pushing inside with each hard inch to follow. "Such a _good_  girl."

 

Sinbad can’t _breathe._  

The sweet scent of exotic oils is all he can smell, his breath hitching and gasping as Rashid pulls him back, and every thick inch stuffs him so full he can’t remember ever thinking about anything else. He _writhes_ , hoarse sobs of need and _ache_ , hands fisting in the sheets for some purchase, some leverage that he can’t seem to get, and all he can do is surrender. His spine arches, and he shoves back weakly with every powerful thrust, begging for more stretching his hole wide.

“Fuck me,” he begs, thighs trembling as he tries to push back, tries to do as he’s told, tries to be the _good_ whore he’s painted as. “Make me--ahh, god, please, fuck me like a good--”

 

Rashid groans as he shoves himself in as deeply as he can, dragging his hands to Sinbad's hips and gripping tightly enough that he _knows_  there will be bruises--all the better for it, to mark this one up as he fucks him, yanking him into each thrust, holding him down as he bends low over him, mouthing and biting at trembling shoulders.

The way he feels clenching around his cock makes him wonder if maybe this _is_  Sinbad's calling, and by god, he'd keep him just to rut on him like this every night. He doesn't have to be gentle, not like with the girls he keeps. This one he can shove into the bed and ride hard, and so he _does_ \--a hard hand digging between Sinbad's shoulders, holding his head to the sheets as Rashid fucks him with hard, rough thrusts, punishing at best for every lewd writhe and arch of the boy's back.

 

If Rashid were gentle, Sinbad would _hate_ this. He’s not, he’s rough and hard and brutal, and Sinbad’s cock throbs so hard it _hurts_ with every thrust, as he wriggles and slams himself back as much as he can. The hands on his hips hold him in place, let him bury his face and bite the sheets, bite his lip, smudge the paint on his face that he knows just makes him look like more of a used, filthy whore, and he can’t even get a hand onto his cock to finish himself off at just that mental image.

“Like a whore,” he groans, into the sheets. “Your whore, the King’s whore--”

 _Just a piece of worthless trash, good only to take cock and the back of a man’s hand_.

Sinbad cries out when he comes, shuddering and clenching so hard he swears he’ll break, spilling onto the sheets without a touch to his cock, leaving him a limp, useless thing, even as he twitches and tries to muster the muscle control to hold his ass up, tries to still be _good_ for the king.

 

"Filthy slut," is the purr into Sinbad's ear, and Rashid yanks his trembling, quivering body back with every rough shove and slide of his cock. "Soiling a king's bed like that. Maybe I will make you lick up the mess you've made."

Just the _image_  is enough, and Rashid groans, shoving Sinbad's face down into the sheets again as he uses him, fucks him like he's a _toy_  far more than a living, breathing thing, and it's with a sharp bite to Sinbad's shoulder that he comes, shoving his cock deep into his ass to spill inside of him, hot and slick and pulsing hard with every shuddering breath that escapes through his nose.

 

Sinbad lets out a soft whimper when the king fills him, fills him so full he hurts, every muscle tight and spasming, and he pants hard, resting his cheek on the bed, groaning at the feeling of utter, slick fulness. Every threat makes his hands clench harder into the sheets, sending little shocks up his spine that he can’t tell whether he enjoys or not.

The thud of his pulse is loud in his ears, and he can feel Rashid throbbing inside him, too big, too thick. He swallows hard, turning a smudged, tear-stained face back to Rashid. “Have I served you well, your Majesty?”

_Are you done with me?_

Rashid sucks in a slow, even breath, and he smoothes a hand down Sinbad's spine as he carefully pulls out to roll to the side. "Very well," he breathlessly praises, a little smirk curving his lips as he reaches over to pinch at a well-bruised hip. "See to it that you clean yourself up well, you _do_  look obscene like this."

 

Sinbad nods, slowly picking himself off the bed. It’s somehow _better_ like this, being dismissed like the filthy, dripping, aching thing he is. “Yes, sir.” He spends a few seconds looking for his clothes, only to flush deep red at the realization that all the clothes he has are the gauzy drapey _soiled_ things he’s wearing. Brazen he might be, but the idea of returning to his room like this, walking _through the palace_ like this…

 

It takes but a moment for a long, heavy cloak to be draped about his shoulders, and Rashid gives his hair an affectionate ruffle. "Go on, now. I will send a servant girl to your room shortly, you could use a _hot_  bath, I imagine."

 

Sinbad looks up, giving him a grateful look. He musters up some semblance of a bow, even though his knees wobble and nearly give out. “Yes, your Majesty. Thank you, your Majesty.”

Just before the door shuts, he murmurs, “I hope to see you again someday, your Majesty.”


End file.
